Saturday, April 21, 2007


The rite of spring
riot of blooms
rout of cold winds winters bane
shivering bones
clattering in dismal dungeons dark

Violets are gone now
and iris and lily
bluebonnets take the stage
peerless blue to shame a cloudless sky

Pretty pink primrose too
takes the eye and
pink petal's secret promise folds
virgin thighs' blissful path

See me touch me
feel me smell me-
please don't pick me
let me cast seed and wither and die

I'll be here every spring
past winter's baleful fling
and if you fail to come again
my bloom our last visit will still contain

Of all I am the flowering sum
Pinnacle of the past
nadir of the future
purpose centered everywhere bounded nowhere.


Meaning cannot be reduced to its expression.
The distillation of meaning, knowledge, truth, liberty, and the like, into formulae is ultimately impossible because these qualities, embedded in the real, are inexhaustible, ever renewing, ever in process of being increased. The mere attempt to express meaning GROWS meaning. Yet meaning, truth, liberty, etc., do not change in themselves. The fire of liberty remains fire, but grows brighter with action done in its service.
With the increasing illumination one imagines that attraction likewise increases and that correspondingly that "spirit whence issued forth of old..." this cosmic activity, smiles a little more at the unfolding of his intention.